


duplexity

by iosis



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Dreamscapes, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Teratophilia, if you cant beat your inner demons you sure can fuck them, timeloop sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25357753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iosis/pseuds/iosis
Summary: it's not about winning - how could one hope to win against one's own self? it's about making a stand, right until the very end - and this charade always ends the same.or, Spirit realm meets Existential Crisis meets Monsterfucking
Relationships: Yone/Gatekeeper, Yone/Inner demon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	duplexity

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot believe this is the first thing i post in like 3 years...no thoughts, head empty, yone nameless monster hot. 
> 
> content warning for mentions of death and violence, slightly dubious consent, more dubious safety and very little sanity. this is intended as a work of fiction and fiction alone.

In his waking, he is not free. 

Where is it that he wakes? Suspended between absent ground and a cloudless blue sky - somewhere between past and present. There is no above or below, no forward or back - only the path before him. Colours are subdued, and sounds - those whisper to him through a mist, like a childhood dream - sweet childhood, how long ago? - or half-forgotten memory. The air blows, carrying with it a pure scent and the caress of blossoms - pink and red and lilac. For a second, the wind almost brings that memory to the surface - a vestige, a flicker of something - but it is darker and colder than anything in the land around him, a creeping dusk, an inevitable fall. 

  
Some things, perhaps, are better left forgotten. 

How long _is_ the Path, how long is he fated to walk? Time ceases to exist, measured only by the Gatekeeper's steady pace, by his own footsteps in her wake. Statues of old gods he should remember the names of, places and feelings he's certain he's seen before, but it all blurs in the mist. Not your pain to know, the wind whispers, bringing with it another scatter of mauve - not your mistakes, not your fall. Words of reassurance but they offer no comfort, like there's a hidden warning lurking somewhere in the dewy mist. A warning he doesn't understand or heed until the blossoms are dyed blood red and the world fades to black again.

In his dream-time, he is not free.

Sword clashes with sword - his arms tremble with the strain, the sheer force of the impact. He holds his ground, counts the moments of tension. Vows himself to be unmovable - gaze fixed between two burning golden eyes but not directly on them, never on them. 

Dodge, block, deflect, block again. Here it's another world, water lapping at his ankles and no firm ground tangible beneath - but something feels solid as he digs his heels in and endures. Muscles lock together, heartbeat staccatos in his temple, breath has purpose again - and here, as the beast snarls and snaps its blunt teeth together - here he truly exists again. 

A whirl of silver, a flash of gold - accusation? thrill? - the monstrous spectre lands on its haunches, robes billowing as it goes - except it's real, so very real. 

For a second he allows himself bravery, resolve - but not for longer, because the inevitable always happens. Sword clashes with sword and this time his blade shatters, falls down into the water without sound. Resolve and sanity slip gradually as they always do, one after the other; the second blade soon follows. 

Fragments of steel, useless in their hilts. Fragments of reality to fuel his recollection of what life has been like. So little left to defend himself. 

Still, he tries, dodging and blocking, a flurry of grim determination. It's not about winning, for how could one hope to win against one's own self - it's about making a stand, right until the very end.

This charade always ends the same. 

A lunge from a blind spot that comes too quickly to dodge - even in dream-time his reflexes wane and tire. A flash of amber-red, and this time it is certain to be triumph - clawed hands descending onto his shoulders, long silver mane veiling his face.   
  
**_There you are,_** the thing speaks, though its grotesque face shows a static grin, unchanging; red flesh stretched around rows of teeth gleaming white. Rather, its mocking tone permeates through his mind, his awareness of this strange place - like the whole land mocks his weakness.   
  
His own hands - so small, so human, so damn fragile compared to the thing's brute force - scramble for purchase around its thick forearms, trying and failing to pry them off him. He feels the rough, hot skin, the muscle and sinew and bone underneath, but the creature gives no heed to how he pushes and squeezes, how he writhes in its grasp. He pushes harder, twisting, nails digging in, claustrophobia settling. That elicits a response, though not the one he so naively hopes for - it's a little hum of encouragement, perhaps, or worse, endearment. 

**_That's it. The strength, the willpower..._ **

A great head looms closer - silver hair on silver, teeth bared. 

An exhale, deliberate and slow - ghost breath on his skin like a caress, and he fights to suppress a shudder. Breath that should've been hot and foul, not a saccharine sweet coolness, like the petal breeze over the Path.

An inhale - drawing in his scent like it basks in it. Drinking in his fear, relishing, if the way it arches against his body is anything to go by. 

At that he stills, twisting his neck to the side in stubborn refusal to look at the thing, to give it the satisfaction. What willpower, what strength, when he fails again and again? When it overpowers him so easily... 

_**Oh, but you fight so well,**_ the thing rasps gently, a parody of consolation. _**You always resist me so sweetly...**_

His vision is a curtain of dull silver so his sight no longer serves him, but the voice lilts and swirls around him in circles. The thing hasn't moved an inch yet the words saturate the air to his left, then a hum of approval vibrates to his right - nearer.

Farther.

Right by his ear, and then miles away.

Everywhere and nowhere at once. Disorientating, destabilising - like his only anchor to reality is the _thing_ holding him in its grasp. 

A clawed hand tracing the outline of his shoulder - lazy, unhurried. Here, there's no need for haste - here, time moves slowly, a great underwater current, if at all. Against it, his own movements, his feeble attempts to free himself are even less significant, like he isn't there at all. A steel-sharp talon presses in, shredding fabric off his shoulder like it's nothing. An approving hum, and the creature ruts closer, slow, relaxed satisfaction. A sharp intake of breath, a curse, but the need to feel something - that _anchor,_ a connection, a tangible presence - outweighs repulsion. The creep of claws on bare skin is a brand, searing, scorching, but he strains into the touch and not against it, and - somehow, he breathes easier now. 

In, out, in, out. Possessive, cruel, intoxicating.   
  
The hand unfolds over his neck - thumb on his pulse point, index on his jaw, middle against the shell of his ear. Claws dig in - not enough to draw blood, but surely enough to mark - enough to trace its touch come the morning. Something to remain - something real. 

He clutches at the thought like a man drowning. He might as well be, in this world of dripping water, of that invisible solid plane beneath his feet suddenly disappearing. 

_**I wonder...** _The creature shifts and the silver mane is no longer in his vision - instead, he sees nothing at all. The intensity of its gaze is scorching but he can't even tell where it comes from - there's just him, the talons on his arteries, and memory. 

**_Why do you fight it so?_ **

In the absence of vision, it is so easy to remember.

Bodies scattered in the water - limbs at all the wrong angles, eyes unseeing and hollow. Their face a death mask, lit up by a strange internal light - the unnatural stillness, as if at any instant one of them would speak again, accuse him of all his failures.   
Deaths left in his wake. Somewhere among them is his own, but it seems inconsequential amidst the suffering of others.   
Phantom scent of blood, disembodied voices and breaths cut short - a dying gurgle, a prayer to the wind. Not a new memory, but nausea claws its way through his body all the same; panic still gets caught in his throat. 

**_Will they leave you, if you don't think about them? If you cannot smell their wounds or taste their blood, will you forget?_ **

And of course he takes the only alternative to memory, of course he clutches at the arms entrapping him tighter. The claws all but cradle his face and though shame washes over him, to lean into that hand is to seek respite. Another paw must've made its way to his hair, threading the silken strands, until suddenly his head is jerked in a direction and there's sharp pain all through his scalp. Sharp enough to bring white dots of static to his vision - but with them, starts to return his sight. Eyes seeing again boring into the predator before him, mouth a set line of determination, catching every whimper threatening to spill at the rough treatment. 

Of course he doesn't resist, cannot resist when the thing presses him closer - an unstoppable force, a radiant heat. Advancing upon him further and further until he's stumbling backwards, losing footing over lack of solid ground. Falling, if not for strong inhuman arms accepting his weight almost tenderly, if not for the frame of another's body guiding him down.   
  
A muscular thigh forces its way between his own and the sheer physicality of it overloards every sense - even shame at how eagerly his legs fall open. His cock stands to attention, trapped in all the layers of his robes - from the unceremonious manhandling moments ago? From the hot breath fanning his abused neck before, from the teasing rasp of its growls? A part of him suspects he's been hard and leaking from the first clash of their swords.

A fleshy hand cups him through the fabric, talons curled in slightly in an unspoken warning, but he cares little about their sharp edges as he pushes into the pressure, a grim desperation for more. These encounters, too, are like battle - he may not have won control, but he'll be damned all over again if he doesn't take as much as he can in return. Eyes flash a solid red as he rubs himself against the hand in short, jerky motions, nothing like its slow, measured teasing. Its glee is palpable at the sight and feel of its human pleasuring himself, but it's harder and harder to care when it feels this good - the rough inhuman texture, the claws, the ridges along its palm. 

_**That's it,**_ the thing croons again, a cruel comfort. _**Let yourself feel.You want to feel so much, don't you?**_

Still he curses at it, at its uncontained satisfaction - but his voice breaks off when talons find the outline of his length with unashamed deliberation, as they pry and squeeze. Again, appendages sharper than steel cut through cloth and his robes pool around his thighs, useless - a reminder of ruined modesty, a flash of pale slim thighs on black water, on red leathery skin - 

  
And then it's just the sheer pleasure of that grotesque hand on heated flesh, _gods_ , the talons. The ridges. 

  
Swallowing down his moans is no longer a priority - the grin just widens in response. Amused in its hunger to see him watch with a detached, hazy wonder at how the clawed hand slowly jerks him off - how something so deadly can be used to feel so good. The plating of its arm rubs against his thigh with each stroke, just barely, a maddening hint of pressure. Not enough. 

Even with the hand pulling his hair and exposing his throat for those horrible, wonderful teeth to make impact, even with the claws around his cock, sleek and wet with his own precome - not enough. 

His hands remember violence, as he pulls and tears at the thing's garments. Remember shedding blood that could've been avoided, remembers fingers shaking as they try and staunch bleeding. His throat remembers copper, and he'd do anything to get the taste out. When a tongue licks into his mouth, a parody of a kiss, he opens up all too willingly. It tastes of dried petals, not unpleasant, but never becomes more than parody - not with those teeth, or the size of that maw. Just a rough, coarse tongue demanding entry, unrelenting, unforgiving as it pushes the memory aside. 

Again the thing hums approval, but this time he doesn't deny himself the heat that reverberates through his body with the sound. Unbidden, his hands reach out for the two strands of hair framing its beastly face, for the helm wrapped around its great head - too warm to the touch for metal, too sleek and geometric for horns. Tugs the monstrosity closer, relishes in the familiar glow of amber and gold - here, real, alive. Any longing to get away is gone, all that desperate energy committed to a completely different purpose. 

_**You cannot get away from me and stay true to yourself,**_ it reminds him in a low growl, angling itself between his legs. He tries to get more leverage for himself, but the creature is so damn _big_ \- already his thighs strain, stretched around the girth of its torso, the width of its abdomen and hips. He's completely dwarfed by it, he relishes in the thought - one wrong move and he'd surely be dead, crushed on the spot, yet somehow trapped beneath its towering frame and oblivion, he's safe - ache as his hips might as he locks his legs into place around it. 

Ache is a welcome thing, a form of proof. Ache, he knows how to define, and all that can be defined can be endured. 

He tries to cry out as the thing breaches his body - it hurts, it hurts just the way he wants it, tight, _perfect_ \- but there's rough calloused skin of a hand covering his mouth, his nose. It smells of cedarwood, of bonfires - or funeral pyres, perhaps. As it it were grey smoke clogging his airways and making it hard to breathe. Blood rings in his ears, body too sensitive, too aware - the muscles straining in the arm reaching for his neck, the pattern of ridges and growths riddling its great body where they're pressed into his skin - will they bruise, please let them bruise. The way it fucks him, rough and unrelenting, the sound of gods-know-what impacting flesh again and again. He will not suffocate, but the lack of oxygen makes him lightheaded, like he's floating. Like all that exists is this amplified reality of his body, and the white-hot pleasure growing stronger with every thrust. 

Split into pain and pleasure, reality is so very simple.

A single talon, a single deadly point draws patterns into the soft flesh of his thigh, tantalising. When it streaks up his shaft, a teasing flick of sensation setting his nerves on fire - then he does cry out, and taloned fingers shove themselves into his mouth, filling it like the creature fills his body - absolute, all-encompassing. Pain, when a talon splits his bottom lip as it retreats - pleasure as the fingers force their way in again, at how perfectly they fill him. Pain, as a particularly hard thrust breaches him further than what the thing knows he can take. Pleasure as for that moment it's buried in him to the hilt, like they're one, like he's rejoined with something he's been missing. 

_**We are more, together,**_ the demon growls at him just before he comes, untouched and desperate and _**so lovely. We're always been one.**_

Reality is so very difficult when he's left alone with his thoughts. 

The thing stays with him, exhausted but sated, after - it is the way it's always been. When he doesn't have the strength to keep his eyes open or hold himself up, it keeps those unbidden thoughts away - like the gentle mist in his head name is something to be treasured. Sometimes it drags him, limp and pliant, onto its lap, haloing him in its heat, sometimes its voice dances around him in circles once more. This time calloused inhuman hands card through his hair, extracting the tangles of its own doing. 

_**You always accept the pleasure,**_ it tells him, right before he fades into oblivion - voice quiet and almost a little sad. _**Why do you not accept truth?**_

In the waking time, he finds himself in a clearing, soft grass soothing invisible bruises. Skin on his neck unbroken, robes immaculate and whole. Panic without cause, hands grasping a sword that isn't there. Memory that brings peace, brings relaxed quiet, but never feels quite whole. 

  
  
In his waking time - what is he, really? 

**Author's Note:**

> I know we aren't clear as to what the demon's name or role is - is it the Gatekeeper, is it Obsession, is it unnameable? so for the timebeing i've just opted to refer to it as 'creature' and 'thing'. Gatekeeper is in the tags since some do refer to it as that (tho i do personally think that role is represented by Ahri). 
> 
>   
> all feedback is appreciated! 
> 
> also sometimes i cry about league of legends on [twitter](https://twitter.com/nibelvng)


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